


Resumption of Service

by PeniG



Series: Akashic Records [16]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Feet, Other, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-13 06:56:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21240029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeniG/pseuds/PeniG
Summary: In which Aziraphale fixes Crowley's feet, again, and much is communicated if not exactly said.





	Resumption of Service

Crowley got out of the church without stumbling or wincing. He was feeling pleased with himself about it, when Aziraphale caught up and scooped him into a bridal carry. _“Gckh_!” He protested.

“Where did you park?” Aziraphale asked, as if this were normal, as if the radiant warmth and the strength and the gentleness he exerted weren’t spoiling the effect of the rescue in the best possible way.

Crowley wanted to rest his head on his angel’s shoulder and sob, or possibly laugh; but he wasn’t about to do either. “A block ahead here. I can walk! Let me down!”

“There is nothing you can step on out here that won’t make your feet worse. Not to mention the dirt.” Aziraphale picked his way at speed through crumpled asphalt, building shards, and broken glass. The satchel of books swung against Crowley’s thighs.

“Shoes!”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “I haven’t seen you put anything on those feet since the Year Without a Summer.”

“You haven’t seen me with feet at all since 1862! People change!”

“Yes, but_ you_ haven’t. You’ve still got the sense of self-preservation of a moth around open flame. _Oh, here’s a chance for a dashing rescue, it’ll only cost some possibly incurable damage to these things I walk on every day, off we go -“_

Crowley’s car waited unscathed in the alley behind a row of shops, and he popped the driver’s side door open with a finger click as they approached. “They’re your feet to begin with! I can use ‘em on your behalf if I want to. Besides, they’ll heal. Compared to what Patrick did to me that time s’nothing.”

He felt Aziraphale’s bosom swell with indignant speech, and then felt him release the words unsaid as he dropped the satchel and set Crowley, as delicately as if he were made of spun glass, sideways on the driver’s seat. “I’ll be the judge of that,” he said, kneeling in complete disregard for the state of his trouser knees, and took Crowley’s right foot in hands that glowed.

“Speaking of self-preservation,” said Crowley. “Blackout. Still bombers up there.”

“They won’t spot a candlepower’s worth of light through the automobile and our corporations. I need to see the damage.” Aziraphale passed one hand parallel to the sole of Crowley’s foot, and he felt gravel and grit and bits of scorched scale drop off, as near painlessly as possible given that his feet felt, from the ankles down, as if freshly pulled from boiling water. Less painful than boiling sulphur, but bad enough. They smelled like cooked meat and something sharp, like bleach. “Would you mind shifting to a more skinlike texture, please?”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Crowley couldn’t remember the last time he’d had separated toes, but the change to bare feet was an easy one to make. Only, ha, skin deep. He leaned against the seat back, watching Aziraphale’s plump soft hands soothing his bony raw feet, wishing the hat didn’t cut off all sight of his face, feeling both deeply satisfied and deeply puzzled. Aziraphale looked the same as ever - that was the identical velveteen waistcoat he’d talked the angel into that time - but something was Different, and sorting out what it was seemed a more productive use of his attention than thinking about how much his feet hurt.

Though they already hurt less. Of course they did. If he had thought at all on the subject before running into the church (he hadn’t), he would have assumed that Aziraphale could fix any harm consecrated ground would do, and here he was, fixing. A bit slower than anticipated. Back in Gomorrah he’d only had to touch the burns for them to cool. No, it was Crowley’s heart that had kept on hurting back then, and that organ was in fine fettle right now, positively bounding along.

So, what was Different? Something about his angel’s wants. He sorted through the layers:_ heal Crowley, talk to Crowley, good stiff drink - with Crowley_ \- He found his mouth stretching and relaxing into a grin, and didn’t try to stop it.

Aziraphale, cradling his left foot in both hands, made an exasperated noise. “That’s the best I’ll be able to do here and now, I’m afraid. I can work on them more back at the shop, but - driving requires stepping on, on pedals and things, does it not?”

“I’m good to drive,” said Crowley. 

Aziraphale looked up and pressed a thumb against the pad of his foot without warning. Crowley didn’t manage to suppress the flinch. “Mm-hmm. I’ve no doubt you can steel yourself to do it.”

“Well, you’re not learning to drive _my car_ in the middle of an air raid!”

Aziraphale released the foot and began untying his shoelace. “We can at least protect you from further damage.”

“Your shoes won’t fit me!”

“They will with a modicum of effort.”

“Or I can get some that fit me to begin with.” Crowley snapped his fingers, and a pair of low, slim black loafers appeared on the running board. They wouldn’t normally be stylish enough for him; but comfort was a priority right now.

“You’ll want stockings, too. Nice thick ones, for cushioning.”

_Snap!_ “Socks, angel. Men don’t wear stockings anymore. These woolly enough for you?”

Aziraphale picked up one of the pair draped across the loafers, and rubbed it between his fingers. “Yes, these will do.” He put his thumbs inside and started scrunching them up to slip them onto Crowley’s feet.

Crowley’s heart swelled like the second movement in a symphony of fondness, and his face burned. “I can put on my own socks.”

“I’ve yet to see it proved. I hope these don’t fall down too badly without garters.”

“They won’t dare,” Crowley assured him, slipping the newly-clad foot into its corresponding loafer as Aziraphale bundled up the other sock. “Y’know, I haven’t even thought about garters since you used to do mine up as Lady Crowlyn?”

“Once a tire-woman, always a tire-woman, I suppose. There we go, all shipshape.” He rose, dusting off his knees, and picked up the satchel. “I trust you’ll have no difficulty finding the shop in the dark.”

_If I were blindfolded, sent circling the earth a dozen times, and set down in a random spot anywhere under Heaven, I’d be able to go straight to your bookshop without even stopping to orient myself._ “If I do, you’ll set me right. Hop in.”

Aziraphale walked around the car and climbed into the passenger seat while Crowley started her up. “Do you know, I think this is only the second motor car I’ll ever have ridden in?”

“Well, you are in for a treat! Best car on the road, this! Hang on tight!”

Night with no headlamps during the Blitz - he couldn’t have asked for better conditions in which to show off his driving skills and the capacities of his beautiful car. No traffic, lots of tight corners and unexpected diversions, and he managed to not slow down for one of them. Aziraphale made a number of sounds he’d never heard before in the five minutes it took to pull up in the alley behind the shop, where there wasn’t technically enough room to open either door. Crowley took the time for a quick scan before getting out. “Oi, angel, somebody's in your basement!”

“That’ll be Mrs. Lavender. My charwoman. She got bombed out, so she’s got a cot in the kitchen, and she says it feels safer than the tube during air raids.”

“Probably because it is.” Crowley laid his hand on the back door knob, and felt suddenly warm and wobbly inside as the wards recognized him, and opened. “Bit awkward having a human in your basement, though, innit?”

“Not really. She’s a very busy woman during the day, between cooking and cleaning for me and for the canteen down the street, and at night she sleeps like a log. The sirens don’t disturb her in the slightest. And she has the born city dweller’s knack for minding her own business.”

Crowley barely heard him in the sensory overload of the back room. He’d long gone mouth- and noseblind to the complicated smells of modern London, and wasn’t prepared for the embrace of an atmosphere he hadn’t experienced in eighty years - dust, paper, parchment, angel, ink, tobacco, alcohol, wood, leather, tea, floor wax - he staggered under the unaccustomed weight of safety in the air, and Aziraphale dropped the satchel on the floor to catch him by the arm. “It’s all right, my dear, I’ve got you. The couch is right where it used to be but there’s a few more things in the way - here we go - best put your feet up - never mind the upholstery - “

“Of course I don’t mind the upholstery. It’s an ugly couch. I can’t believe you haven’t replaced it yet.” Crowley could always rely on his mouth to make appropriately grouchy flippant noises while his mind sorted through sensations. Aziraphale took his coat and hat and settled him into his old spot, the cushion shaping itself under him as if it had been waiting for him.

A light came on, and he saw that the room was not exactly as it had always been. Electric lamps, for one thing; more books; more tables; more shelves; more cabinets; yet more books; an old-fashioned gramophone with a huge bell; a sink; a hot plate with a kettle; a big black typewriter; the coatrack hung all over with cardigans and macs and hats - including one with a little veil that must belong to Mrs. Lavender, and a helmet (right, Aziraphale _would_ be an air raid warden, that wasn’t a surprise); and heavy blackout curtains.

Aziraphale bustled about gathering things with which to supplement his innate healing, including a bottle and a pair of tulip glasses. Another familiar smell joined all the others as he poured and passed one to Crowley, setting the bottle on the table at his elbow. “I don’t know how much what I’m going to do will hurt, so feel free to help yourself when you feel the need.”

“Is this that last batch of Armagnac I got you?”

“You didn’t think I’d drink it with anybody else, did you? Off with the shoes, now, and roll up those trouser legs. Wouldn’t want to get them wet. We’ll start by seeing if tap water can draw out the heat better than I can.”

Crowley kicked the loafers off, letting his palm warm the glass. The drink smelled like relief and tasted like coming home. Eighty years - it ought to be vinegar by now, but of course Aziraphale hadn’t let his last present spoil. Of course he hadn’t.

The angel kept up a steady stream of nervous (why nervous? What was Different?) patter as he rolled up his sleeves, settled Crowley’s feet in a basin of water, and busied himself with blessings and soap and an ointment and the softest cloths in creation. Crowley occasionally made noises, sometimes in response to pain, but more often in response to gentleness in the hands contrasted with exquisite sharpness in the voice; to skin on long-untouched skin; to pain eased without loss of sensitivity; to a round chin or a blue eye or a haze of pale curl moving in and out of the lamplight. The forearms alone were almost enough to discorporate him. Put it all together and it was too much.

Crowley wanted more.

He held himself perfectly still, knowing that if he let himself move he’d dive in headlong where he didn’t belong. Never mind that, as the state of the feet improved, satisfying Aziraphale’s desire to heal them, his desire for Crowley to stay became more prominent. Existence would be a doddle, if all he had to do was give Aziraphale what he wanted. No, he had to keep his eye peeled for the hints as to which wants Aziraphale would_ allow_ him to fill, and how thoroughly.

“I’m afraid that’s the best I can do.” Aziraphale fastened gauze around raw new toes. “I hope they don’t scar. And they may be tender for several days. Best stay off them as much as you can. And wear actual shoes for awhile!”

“If I didn’t scar after Patrick, I won’t scar after this.” Crowley pulled his feet back up onto the couch, and the socks back on. Socks felt surprisingly nice, especially with his feet all scaleless and exposed to the air.

“That doesn’t follow. I had a nearly-untouched personal reserve after Patrick, and drained it completely putting you to rights.” Aziraphale carried the basin back to the sink to dump it, and put his ointments and bandages away neatly in a cupboard. “These days I’m relatively weak. I haven’t been able to keep myself topped up since the Blitz started, and head office hasn’t seen fit to grant me a larger miracle budget even for the duration. I was terrified I wouldn’t have enough to keep the, to contain the holy water when the bomb landed.” He sank into the armchair next to the lamp and the bottle, as Crowley poured him a bit more. “Oh, thank you. Cheers.” He picked up the glass and clinked it with Crowley’s; an oddly hesitant clink, and the surface of the liquor quivered.

“Oh, _that's_ how you came to forget the books,” said Crowley, watching him from behind the safety of his glasses. The lamp illuminated Aziraphale’s face fully for the first time that evening, and he was enjoying all its tiny expressive motions, as well as trying to interpret them into a guide for getting through the night without wrecking things again. “Glad I noticed in time. I need to take care I don’t get a swelled head, being chosen over books like that.”

He expected a retort about his head already being well-swollen, not the collapse of the entire angelic edifice in a tremulous slump. “Of c-course I - no, I sup-p-pose I d-deserved - only I thought - I know you d-don’t care about b-books I thought that meant you forg-gave me please -“

Crowley had, in his time, been kicked in the chest by more than one horse. This hit harder; so hard he forgot all about the do-not-cross line in his hurry to catch - everything. The tulip glass landed safely upright somehow, and Crowley found himself on his knees, both hands wrapping up both of Aziraphale’s shaking hands, Aziraphale’s forehead against his collarbone, his chin sinking into a trembling fluff of curls as he tried to form a protective shield against a danger he hadn’t anticipated, from a direction he didn’t know how to guard. “Angel. Aziraphale! Breathe. Please. Just breathe. It’s been a long - I’m _sorry_, I shouldn’t have let it be so long - I’m all right, you’re all right, we’re here now, and _you don’t need forgiving!_ Listen to me. Everything’s my fault, don’t be silly, you haven’t done anything wrong,_ you_ don’t need _me_ to forgive you-“

“I was _horrible_ to you!”

“What! When? _Never_, you have _never_ been horrible, you are the _opposite_ of horrible, that’s _my_ job, don’t you _dare_ steal my thunder -“

“In the Park! The last time we spoke! I said -“

“I don’t _care_ what you said, I don’t even remember it. We both said things we didn’t mean. And then I drank myself stupid and slept for fifty-three years while you did _both_ our jobs and kept me from getting bombed or demoted or - _bleeding earth_, Aziraphale, _fifty-three years? _On your own?” He heard his own voice crack; but Aziraphale had stopped trembling.

“You’d have done the same for me. That was the Arrangement.”

“_Dhkj_! That’s - that’s the _opposite_ of the Arrangement! I was supposed to _be there_ -“

Aziraphale straightened in the chair. Crowley found that it was his angel holding his hands, now, and for all their softness the fingers around his were as strong as ever, one squeeze and every demonic bone could splinter; a strength felt most powerfully in its refusal to be anything but tender. “You were _supposed_ to sleep as long as you needed to. I blessed you to sleep till you were refreshed, and dream what you needed to dream, and we’d talk when you were ready. We’d talk _sensibly._ I’m sorry I broke down. That wasn’t fair. Or called for. But I’m ready to talk sensibly now. Are, are you?” The voice steadied as he spoke, only the quaver of the last question escaping him.

Crowley remembered the existence of the Do-not-cross line, realized he was kneeling at Aziraphale’s feet, and said: “Sure, angel. All sense and stiff upper lips, that’s the ticket.” He withdrew his hands, slithered up onto the couch, and picked up his glass. “You start.”

Aziraphale rubbed his hand over his face, sipped his Armagnac, and leaned back to gaze at the ceiling. “All right. From my point of view. This is what happened. I said horrible things -“

“You -“

“I had reasons, but they’re _not_ excuses, so don’t make excuses for me. I said things that made you feel even worse than you already felt. And then I went off in a selfish funk and hid for a month. Hush, you told me to go first so _listen_. By the time I pulled myself together you were asleep, but it wasn’t proper sleep, I could tell, you were having bad dreams, so I - dealt with that. And then I, I did the best I could. Within the constraints of my own mission. Not as good a job as you could have done. All your commendations for the period are for things humans were doing on their own.”

“Yeah, I didn’t _think_ lust murders, anarchists, or violent crowd suppression had your fingerprints on them.”

Aziraphale grimaced. “I had to put a stop to the fad for lust murders myself. I’m sure you’d have - well, never mind. As I said, I did the best I could and if it wasn’t always adequate, well, that’s only to be expected. I admit I almost woke you up a couple of times. But I knew if you were still asleep it meant you still needed the sleep, so -“ He shrugged. “I was terrified, you see. What if I woke you too early, and you still wanted - _that_? I’ve muffed human suicides in my time, and you - never _once_ have I been able to talk you out of doing anything you were determined to do. So when you woke and didn’t contact me, I thought perhaps -- remembering, well, our history, I had no business minding, if you decided that putting distance between us again was in your best interest.”

“I will _never_ decide that. You should know better.”

Aziraphale took his eyes off the ceiling to look him straight in the spectacles, and _oh_! The blue and the soft sad smile and the desire to close the distance between them again almost told him what was Different now. “Slow learner, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t want holy water for _me_. I want it for bloody Dagon. Or Beelzebub. Or whoever the next demon is that notices your existence! I know you’re too kindhearted to use it -“

“I’m not authorized.”

“Authorized?”

“What, you think it never occurred to anybody in Heaven that, given relative positions and the nature of gravity, angels could rain holy water down on Hell at will and get the Great War over with in a trice? That would go against the Great Plan - can’t have that. And if individual angels went around splashing holy water on individual demons, then demons would retaliate with hellfire and everything would escalate prematurely - it stands to reason. Of course there are rules about it. Doesn’t your side have rules about hellfire usage?”

“Not - I don’t - look, you don’t understand the average demon’s outlook. We’re down in the basement holding grudges, all right? Sure, you wipe some wanker angel from existence, you never have to deal with him again, but that’s not what they want. They want to shove sodding Gabriel and Michael and all the rest of ‘em down into the basement and jeer at them from the offices with the corner windows. Want to give ‘em a taste of their own medicine. You can’t torment somebody who doesn’t exist anymore. That’s why they’re never getting their hands on _you_. Not if I can prevent it! And before you start bleating - if they don’t exist they can’t peel _me_ down to nothing for associating with you, either! I never got a chance to tell you - Dagon came poking around, right before I asked, dropped hints about _collaborating with the enemy_ \- She’s _smart_. Ligur is _mean_. Beelzebub is the damn _boss_. Little demons are envious and looking to be less little. Even _Hastur_ could blunder into the middle of something and draw a conclusion if it was obvious enough. _That’s_ what I was thinking that day. I _wasn’t_ thinking about offing myself and leaving you all alone!”

He had been leaning forward, impelled by the force of his argument; but speaking the phrase aloud caused him to collapse back onto the couch with a moan. He yanked his sunglasses off, dumped them onto the table, and rubbed his eyes. “And then I fell asleep and left you all alone for half a century. When I woke up our system was gone. First I thought you were sick of the Arrangement, me, all of it, and I didn’t blame you -”

“_Crowley!_ Didn’t you read the report? I flagged it for you!”

He flailed the hand with the tulip glass in it, unable to look at his angel now that his eyes were bare, but urgently convinced that his eyes had to be bare for this part. “Yeah, eventually, I read it, and then -! _Then!_ I found out! Dagon was _here_! In your _shop_! While I was _asleep_! I hadn’t even _warned_ you she was interested! And you outwitted her handily -“

“Crowley -“

“- you didn’t need me, you _never_ needed me. How could I face you after that? The books’ll never be balanced again!”

“_Crowley!_ Look at me!”

He looked, and the Difference was so obvious he stopped breathing.

“We do not constitute a market economy,” said Aziraphale. “There’s no ledger to balance. No debts. All we can do is the best we can do and if that’s not enough for our head offices, that doesn’t mean it’s not enough for _us_. As for needing - how do you think I got Dagon out of my shop? It was _your_ idea to hide a banishing circle inside the wards._ You’re_ the one who coached me on major demons and their sigils. I don’t know what she intended to do to me, but whatever it was, you saved me from it. As you saved me, and the books, from my own foolishness tonight. But if you’d _never_ saved me from _anything_, I would still be happy to see you, and anxious to get back onto the old footing.”

_“Hgchk.”_ Crowley started his breath up again, holding eye contact as he said, with extreme care: “Can we though? You’ve changed.”

“I have not.”

“I can sssee what you want, and how you want it._ I know you._”

Aziraphale broke contact to peer into his glass, swirling the liquid, blinking. “What I want makes no difference. Not with all other conditions the same.”

“It makes _some_ Difference.”

“Not in any practical sense.” He drank. “What I want - how I feel - that’s never mattered. You’re the only person, anywhere, who thinks it does.”

“Then every other person everywhere is _wrong_.”

_“Oh my dear_ -“ He emptied the glass, poured himself another, squared his shoulders, looked Crowley in the face again, and Smiled. “Now, it is true that some practical considerations have changed. I have a telephone now. And_ you_ have a _motor car!_ I presume petrol restrictions don’t inconvenience you much?”

Crowley sucked in a deep breath, and let it out. _All right. You can change the subject. For now. I know what I know. Need time to absorb it, anyway._ “Not even a little. Don’t tell me your head office is still sending you all over Britain?”

“I can’t make them understand the concept of_ travel restrictions_, and I’m afraid if I make too much of a fuss about the difficulty of getting around, they’ll pull me out.”

“Ugh! I’m surprised Michael is tolerating you here as it is.”

“I know! If we’re invaded I’m done for, but in the meantime -“

“In the meantime, _yes_, I’ll take all your travel assignments! _Love to_! You barely got a chance to see what that car can do. I’ll take you out on the open road some day, really open her up.”

“That’ll be one more thing to look forward to, come peacetime. Oh, I _wish_ I’d been there when you discovered motor cars - and telephones - and cinematographs - and gramophones - I had _so_ looked forward to introducing you to them all, but now you can finally tell me all about it!” Aziraphale wiggled, leaning toward him. Crowley succumbed to the radiance and started to talk.

With so much to catch up on, they were soon so absorbed in conversation that they never heard the “all clear” sound. The back room was a snug, timeless haven, a private microcosm of light and Armagnac and, eventually, pipes; Aziraphale had kept an old Meerschaum of Crowley’s carefully tucked away in a pigeonhole of his desk, along with some tobacco that showed up black market cigarettes for the spineless things they were. In time they became sufficiently drunk to turn on more lamps and the gramophone, for Aziraphale to demonstrate his mastery of the gavotte and Crowley, insisting that his feet felt fine, to miracle up an Ella Fitzgerald record and try to teach Aziraphale to jitterbug. They laughed so hard at the results of this experiment that they didn’t hear the footsteps climbing the stairs from the basement until the door opened.

“What in the world are you up to, making such a racket, Mr. Fell? Is everything all right?”

Crowley dove for his sunglasses. “Good morning, Mrs. Lavender!” Aziraphale beamed at a dumpy woman in a neat but badly faded floral housedress, who gawked back at him in unabashed and - admittedly - natural astonishment. In addition to being flushed and disheveled from the drink and the attempted dancing, Aziraphale had never rolled his sleeves back down, and this was probably the most dishabille she’d ever seen him in. Combined with a shoeless, jacketless, but otherwise fashionable stranger, the spectacle was enough to shock anyone accustomed to Mr. Fell’s easygoing primness.

Aziraphale ignored all this in favor of swaying gently and apologizing with no trace of remorse: “I’m so sorry, I forgot how noisy that would be! Not used to having a downstairs neighbor. This gentleman got caught in the raid last night and damaged his feet. We were testing them to see if they worked.”

Crowley, caught off guard by this brilliant excuse, fell face-first into the couch to hide his laughter. (The feet, _yes_, they must be the reason for what happened when he tried the gavotte.)

Aziraphale continued without missing a beat. “Goodness, what time is it? Is it morning? It’s so hard to keep track with the blackout curtains. Do we have enough eggs to go around?”

“It’s half seven, Mr. Fell!” Mrs. Lavender went around the windows to snap up the shades, frowning with disapproval at Crowley. “And as for eggs, if you had warned me I might perhaps have called in a favor, but with the rationing -“

“Nothing for me.” Crowley dragged himself up from the couch. “Never eat breakfast. Awful meal. Brunch, now, brunch is a beautiful thing, that’s one of _his_, he invented it. You dinnit have to tell me, first time I ever saw it, I said, _Oh, I know where that came from, well done!_ I’ve got to make like a hoop and roll along. No rest for the wicked, all that. M’terribly wicked, you know. Thanks for the feet. You do excellent feet, any time I need feet, this is where I come. Where’s my shoes? I had shoes.”

“You’re in no fit state to drive, my dear!”

“I will be. You, now, you’re a mess, practically indecent! Roll your sleeves down! There’s a lady present.”

“Oh! Oh, dear! I beg your pardon! Wait, no, arms aren’t indecent. Are they? They’re_ not_!” Nevertheless he got to work on the offending sleeves, face puckered with effort.

Mrs. Lavender managed to smile fondly at him and glare malevolently at Crowley (who grinned evilly back, sure that he and Mrs. Lavender had identical opinions of each other) at the same time. “Perhaps you’d better not open the shop today, Mr. Fell. You don’t look well at all.”

“_Liar!_ She’s a liar, angel, you look better than well.”

“Oh! I _have_ to open the shop! It’s good for morale! Business as usual and all that! I’ll open it now. While I’m thinking about it.” Distracted in the middle of his task, Aziraphale drifted through the shop door.

“It’s not business as usual to open at half seven!” Mrs. Lavender started after him, realized that would leave the unnamed and unsavory stranger alone in a room full of things that Mr. Fell considered valuable, and turned back to look daggers at Crowley. “Who the devil do you think you are, taking advantage of a gentleman like that?”

_“I_ don’t take advantage of him,” said Crowley, with great dignity extracting one of his new shoes (a low-cut Oxford now, blessed if he appeared in loafers in public, and his feet were fine or he wouldn’t have been able to almost jitterbug on them, now would he?) from under the couch. “That’ss_ your_ job, innit? He never even looks at his ration card, does he, turns it sstraight over to you and trussts you to do the shopping and all? I bet you’ve got him on short commons, too, what is it, one egg and one rasher for breakfast? A little cheese toast for ssupper? And he never ssees anything with sugar, does he?”

“How _dare_ you! He told me to use the sugar and milk rations for the children, I would _never_ -“

“That tracks,” Crowley conceded, locating the second shoe under the gas fire six feet away.“Lovely ssilly git, goes all the way to Francce for crepes, gives away his sugar ration, trussts nassty untrusstworthy types like you and me, and what do we do? Eh? _We take care of him_, that’ss what.” He wove through the crowd of furniture to hand Mrs. Lavender a small can of coffee and lean into her space. She stood her ground, looking from his face, to the can, to his face again. “Hey,” he said, making eye contact through the glasses. “_Two_ eggs. Every morning. Passtry. You know how to make crepes? Make him some crepes. Ss’not that hard. I don’t think? Anyway, eggs, and milk, and butter, and sugar, and coffee, and tea - loads of tea - cocoa - and don’t worry about it. Ss’on me. Use the whole damn book for what, for whoever, give it to orphans, line your pockets, I’ve _got_ thiss.”

“You don’t know him very well if you think he’ll have any truck with the black market,” said Mrs. Lavender.

Crowley lowered his voice confidentially, thumbs in his red suspenders. Aziraphale’d be cross at him for tempting his housekeeper, but it _wasn’t_ tempting - it didn’t take a sober demon to see that the old biddy’d been hip-deep in the underground economy since the war started. “I’ve known him longer’n you’ve known hot dinners. What the eye doesn’t see the angel doesn’t grieve after. I’ll _handle_ it. You see he’s the one that benefits, that’s all, or I’ll know the reason why. And as for me, you never saw me, and you won’t see me the next time I come round, either.”

Mrs. Lavender backed up, clutching the can to her chest. “Do I look like a rube to you? I was _born_ here - I know The Rules! Which is more’n you do, running your mouth like that! I don’t care how long you think you’ve known him, if you don’t know that _you don’t talk about Mr. Fell,_ you don’t know nothing!”

Crowley barked a laugh, liking her better. “Oh, that’ss interessting! Glad to hear there’s Rules. Been a bit out of touch, y’ssee. Don’t worry, him and me, we got our own Rules. Better make him ssome coffee. He is sso drunk.”

“You mind your business and I’ll mind mine,” retorted Mrs. Lavender, backing up another step as Aziraphale brought his radiance back into the room. “Mr. Fell, you sit down right there and I’ll bring up some lovely eggs and bacon, and some coffee, so you don’t risk your neck on those stairs. Don’t you go wandering around in that state, now.”

“No need to worry about me, dear lady! I’m in excellent fettle! Tickety-boo! Right as rain and gay as ninepence!” Mrs. Lavender disappeared down the stairs, and Aziraphale steadied himself against the back of an armchair. “Oh, dear, she thinks we’ve been ever so naughty, doesn’t she? But I rely on her discretion. People - you know how it is - through here all the time, she never says a word. She met Gabriel once. Told him to wipe his feet on the mat. Brought me cocoa afterward. Lovely woman. Do you have to go?”

“You know I do.” That was easier to say than it would have been before hearing Gabriel’s name. “Let me ssober up and I’ll be on my way. You remember my phone number?”

Aziraphale rattled it off. “And you mine?”

“Engraved on my hand. Heart. Brain. Something. I got it.” He kept his eyes on Aziraphale’s face as he sobered up. His angel looked happy, mussed, a bit out of focus - Crowley wished he could take a photo, carry it around, like a Regency dandy with a miniature of his mistress; but that sort of thing was not for them.

Although...he remembered the eagle lectern, improbably whole in the ruins of the church. _Bombed a church with an angel in it, took a trophy_, that’d look good in a report. If he moved fast nobody’d notice him looting. It wasn’t something he could carry around, but neither was his da Vinci.

Aziraphale bade him good-by, wanting to kiss him, helping him into his coat and handing him his hat instead. “Stay off the feet, and get some sleep, please. Only not too much!”

“I’m making sure I get my head down at least once a year these days,” Crowley assured him. “No more fifty-year naps for me.” He didn’t want to open the door, but he did; didn’t want to close it behind him, but he did. Didn’t want to drive off through the sullen morning mist, but he did, whistling the gavotte.

Aziraphale was right. Nothing either of them felt made any practical difference to the Arrangement.

But Aziraphale was wrong. How he felt made all the Difference in the world.

-30-

**Author's Note:**

> Mrs. Lavender's encounter with Gabriel is detailed in "A Cup of Cocoa." https://archiveofourown.org/works/27137536


End file.
